


i don't do so well on my own

by quinziggle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Overdose, Sad, Suicide Attempt, Synesthesia, bipolar pete, but with a happy ending I swear, definitely not a happy fic, i am sad, sorry about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinziggle/pseuds/quinziggle
Summary: title taken from '7 minutes in heaven' by fall out boy. unromantic depiction of mental illness -- kind of written as a coping mechanism so bear with me. i share a lot of symptoms with pete and so wrote my experience through his eyes.edit// i wrote this before having a full on meltdown so if it's shitty, yeah. i know. i hate myself and if you do too, you can join the club. everything i do is shit and i cannot deal with anything! fun fun fun.





	i don't do so well on my own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [live_and_let_live](https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_and_let_live/gifts).



> title taken from '7 minutes in heaven' by fall out boy. unromantic depiction of mental illness -- kind of written as a coping mechanism so bear with me. i share a lot of symptoms with pete and so wrote my experience through his eyes.
> 
> edit// i wrote this before having a full on meltdown so if it's shitty, yeah. i know. i hate myself and if you do too, you can join the club. everything i do is shit and i cannot deal with anything! fun fun fun.

sometimes dreams don't come true, and that's okay, except when it's you whose dreams are being crushed; trampled underfoot in the wake of a bad day, of a bad week, of a bad last three years of his life. it was still okay though. everything would be fine; at least if he told himself that it would, he'd feel better. fake it til you make it, right? 

truthfully, the only place pete would be making it tonight was in foetal position inside his grimy bathtub. or perhaps the hospital, if he chickened out and called someone. the pills lay in his palm, peeking up at him with curiosity, their split green and white shells the most innocent of murder weapons. pretty, even. the colours said soft/spring/snowdrops; watching your own breath clouding before you, struck through with morning sunlight. 

the medication boxes looked like corpses, however, lying where he'd thrown them earlier. peter lewis kingston wentz, the prescription label read. tablets to be taken orally, once a day: not to be chewed. 100 milligrammes per tablet. 

there were four left in his palm and he scowled at them through the haze and the pain twisting his guts. four tasted bad. four was petty cruelty, boil-washes that shrunk your favourite shirts, that sinking feeling before an anxiety attack.  
feeling for the water bottle lying beside him, pete poured the water down with the pills as if trying to drown them inside him. 

then he lay back and stared at the ceiling. everything would be okay soon, he knew it. 

the cramping was red hot and splitting him open from the inside out, but he'd thrown his phone against the wall earlier so he couldn't call anyone even if he wanted to. physical pain was okay though, he could deal with that. it would stop hurting soon and then he'd be able to sleep. 

five or so minutes later and the pain hadn't dulled. instead, it was pulling him apart, atom by atom; stripping him down into muscle, bones, tissues, blood vessels and cells. his head felt like it was inside a microwave, and the tiny part of his mind not howling in agony was wondering if this would be where it all ended, splayed out on a sweaty bed in an apartment soaked in self hatred. 

the pain tugged hard at his bones, as if trying to tear his skeleton straight through his skin. there was a roaring in his head -- someone was screaming, unfiltered and terrified. if he hadn't been in horrifying agony, he would have said, "girl, me too". the colours were beating into the back of his eyelids, matching the tempo of his frantic heart. as the light drained from his mind, he whispered a silent plea to anyone, anything, to please, _please_ help; even if it was just the wallpaper watching. no one came. 

as the stars inside him burnt to nothing, the last thing his mind conjured for him was an angel at his side: blue eyed, fair haired, and holding his hand. that was good. the best thing his brain had done in a long time. smiling up at the angel, now shouting into a mobile phone about ambulances and someone being in 'critical condition', he closed his eyes. he was ready to go to sleep now.


End file.
